for me to kiss him. I do it anyway, pressing my lips softly against his cheek. It plumps up when I feel him smile against my mouth.
“You should wear that dress I bought you last month. The one with the silver straps.”
I nod, not bothering to remind him the straps are actually golden. I know he doesn’t really care. He simply likes it when I dress up, regardless of what colour I wear. I like it when he’s happy. It makes life easier, both his and mine, and I’m all for that.
When he leaves, carrying a briefcase full of papers he spent all last evening reading, I run to the shower and let the hot water wash away the final remnants of the night. Then I pull on my old jeans and a well-used t-shirt and head for the Tube. It’s always rammed at this time of day. I squeeze my way through the wall of bodies and onto a train, breathing in when I’m pushed against a young girl dressed in school uniform. I flash her an apologetic smile. She rolls her eyes and looks away.
This is the language of the underground. Humans were never meant to live in such close proximity. We haven’t learned how to communicate when we are constantly bombarded by sensation and emotion. We fear what we don’t know, and we loathe it when it’s pressed against our bodies.
Or at least I do.
It’s almost nine o’clock when I walk into the clinic and up the stairs. Lara, one of the counsellors, looks up from her desk and gives me a quick wave. She’s holding a phone in her other hand, rapidly talking into the mouthpiece. I smile back at her. Lara is one of my closest friends here. We met when I first started at the clinic. If I ever feel up or down, she’s the first person I want to talk to.
Lara covers the phone and mouths at me, “Daisy MacArthur.”
She doesn’t have to say any more. Daisy has been a client on and off for the past two years. She’s relapsed three times since she first walked through the door. Each time is worse than the last.
My stomach drops. “What about Allegra?” I ask.
Lara shrugs, making me feel worse. Allegra is only eight years old. She’s been in and out of care since she was a baby. The reason Daisy even came into the clinic in the first place was to try and regain her parental rights—and it worked. She’s an addict, but there’s no doubt she loves her daughter.
I love her daughter, too. Maybe too much. Allegra has lived such a hard life in her short years, I can’t help but feel protective of her.
Lara finally puts down the phone. “Have you got space for another kid at after-school club?”
For the past four years I’ve been running an afternoon club for the children of addicts, while their parents attend group therapy. We have a different theme each day. Music on Mondays, craft on Tuesdays, movies on Wednesdays. Thursdays is art. Allegra loves it. She has an innate ability to draw, and we encourage her to express her feelings on paper.
“Sure.” I nod. “It’s just me today, though.” Until now, an art student from St. Martin’s has been teaching the class. Now she’s graduated I’m searching for her replacement. It isn’t easy, though. We can’t afford to pay them anything, and not everybody can work with traumatised, sometimes violent children. It takes a special sort of person.
“No luck at the college?” Lara shoots me a sympathetic look.
“Nope. I’m going to have to go cap in hand to Elise.” I make a face. Lara reflects it right back at me, making me laugh. She knows Simon and Elise well. Everybody at the clinic does. He’s one of our biggest benefactors. That’s how I met him; at our annual fundraising gala four years ago.
“Well, before you grovel, let’s get a cup of tea.”
Later that afternoon a minibus arrives, bringing children to our after-school club. I’ve set up the classroom with paints and brushes. The tables are covered with large sketchpads. All the equipment has been donated from various sources. I’m the one who goes out begging. Lara calls it my “Oliver” act. I’m always asking for more.
The kids pour into the room, babbling incessantly. They squabble over where they sit, elbowing each other out of the way. It’s all good-natured. Allegra is the last to walk in. She drags her trainers along the tiled floor, making them squeak. Her jet-black hair is falling out of her messy ponytail. I try to bite down the urge to hug her; she doesn’t like being singled out.
Instead, I smile softly and give her hair a quick tug. “Hi.”
“Hello.” Her smile is almost genuine. I tug her hair again, and this time she laughs. It’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Her eyes dart around the room, making sure nobody is listening. “Is she here?”
I nod. “She came in this afternoon.”
An expression of relief passes over her face.
Daisy was sent to the clinic as soon as she was released from hospital, having patched up the head wound she’d got when she passed out on the pavement. Now, she’s all ours. One step forward and two steps back. It’s a fateful dance.
Allegra lingers by my side. “Am I going home tonight?”
My heart aches at her casual way of asking. She’s been moved from place to place so often she doesn’t really see how wrong it is—group homes, foster care, us. Even if her mum’s a messed-up addict, Daisy’s the only constant in Allegra’s life.
“I think so. I’ll ask Lara once you’re all settled in. This time wasn’t as bad as the last.” I can’t believe I’m discussing her mum’s heroin bender. The poor child has seen things nobody should have to. She’s old before her time.
“Okay.” Allegra walks over to a desk and grabs some overalls. A few minutes later, she’s painting. A pretty green landscape is peppered with trees and flowers, below a sky that’s a shade too blue. I wonder if it’s her happy place.
I used to have a happy place when I was going through counselling. A white sand beach with a deep azure ocean gently lapping at the shore. The colour of his eyes. I haven’t thought of it for a while. Haven’t needed to. I have Simon now. He’s my happy place. My protector. He loves me, and I’m grateful. I’m aware how bad that sounds. In these days of insta-passion and lust-fuelled desires, our relationship is stubbornly old-fashioned. I’ve had passion, though, and it almost killed me.